


these, our bodies, possessed by light

by Ias



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M, Physical Disability, Walking Canes, how? who cares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: They return, not quite whole.





	these, our bodies, possessed by light

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually wrote this way back in the summer, and finally decided to start posting it. My warmest thanks to [andhumanslovedstories](http://andhumanslovedstories.tumblr.com) for betaing it (I changed a lot since then, so any and all typos are wholly my own), and shout out to [crowthis](http://crowthis.tumblr.com/) for the well-timed words of encouragement; without them, this would have languished on my hard drive forever. 
> 
> Title from a [Richard Siken poem,](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/) because yeah.

It is an hour past the end of dinner at the estimable Lady Vance’s estate, though what she is esteemed for Francis has not yet discerned. She moves in circles which, prior to the expedition, were as far above Francis’s head as the orbit of the cosmos. But now, on the coattails of their  miraculous survival, the invitation cards he and James find waiting by their breakfast settings in the morning are as crisp and white as chips of ice, serifs barbed like fish hooks.

Always that same word: “miraculous.” As if their lives had reappeared out of the north like some cheap parlor trick, a cloth whisked away, an audience's delight. A more comfortable idea than the truth, of course, but Francis has tired of comfort.

Francis has stationed himself near the wall, where he is no longer pestered by conversation. Nights such as these he wishes he had the forethought to take up smoking; his hands are bereft of glass and cigar, but one does not interest him and the other, well. The air smells of brandy, which offers no temptation. But it does settle like a headache at the bridge of his nose, a constant awareness that will not go away. Instead he fingers the chain of his fob watch, far past caring for the appearance of rudeness; with the cold links of the chain clicking between his worrying fingers like rosary beads, Francis listens.

“As we quickly discovered, our own rendezvous with our would-be rescuers was hardly the end of our troubles.” Like some bard of old, James is cloaked in the shadows of the wing-back chair he occupies, stationed by the fire and appearing perfectly at ease.  Francis suspects he is the only one who sees the cracks in the facade. The way James’s eyes lack the deep crow’s feet that dimple their corners when his smile is true; the cadence of his voice which suggests each word is being deliberately chosen from a dictionary apart from his own, the one he dusts off when speaking to people rather than with them. 

And perhaps most telling of all is the cane he grips by the head, turning it in idle circles where it rests against the inside of his knee. The same cane he attempted to forget in their shared apartments, for the third time that week; Francis had immediately stepped back from the door that moments ago he had been ready to step through, hurried up the stairs coattails flapping with James’s protestations rising behind him, to return moments later with the object in his hand.

James lingered near the door, his expression hanging. “I feel perfectly well tonight, Francis. I won’t be needing it.”

Their housekeeper had retreated after helping them with their coats. In the front hallway they were alone as Francis took James’s hand—and wordlessly pressed the head of the cane into his palm, keeping his eyes carefully free of reproach. James’s mouth had twitched; the familiar puckering near his jaw as he bit at the inside of his cheek. But his hand had closed around the implement, and they had left without further argument.

They had not even completed the walk from the cab to the front of Lady Vance’s manor before James’s cane became not a flashy accessory to accentuate each of his long-legged steps, but rather a crutch to be leaned on heavily as they made their way up the shallow stairs.

In the end, Francis had offered his arm. James hesitated only a moment before stiffly accepting it. Francis knew better by now than to take any offense.

Now, the silver head of the cane catches the firelight between James’s fingers. That light catches also in the grey in James’s hair, the paled strands not present at the beginning of the expedition and which should not have appeared for some time longer. Even in the heat of the fire his face looks wan. The ice had bleached him like a bone.

Francis yearns to go to him, to kneel beside his chair as he might do in their rooms at home, and tell him precisely how he looks, in this moment: how beautiful and distinguished and alive. He wants to lean on the back of James’s chair and let his fingers train through every silver filament of the man’s hair. But such a thing is not to be done in company.

And company there is, a handful of gentlemen occupying the furniture and standing space near where James has situated himself.  The way they are arrayed strikes Francis as more akin to the panel of a court martial than a casual evening’s audience. At one point, James would have been in his element here, ever adept at directing people to see the parts of himself he wishes them to while shuttering their attention from those he does not. Now, every gaze has flicked at least once to the cane he still rolls between his thumb and forefinger. Francis know this because he is watching their eyes.

“We had hundreds of miles yet to travel, and though the fresh food had bolstered our bodies and spirits, we were many of us yet camped on death’s threshold,” James continues. The men surrounding him lean forward and seem to close around him like the fingers of a fist. “Every step we took was agony to our bleeding feet, our aching joints, our muscles as weak as a babe’s. By the time we reached the second relief party we were hardly better than when the first had found us.” James tilts his head, as if remembering the anecdote he’s recited a dozen times. “The second party brought the real essentials. No small amount of the men actually wept on tasting a proper cup of tea once more, and I’m not ashamed to say I was one of them.”

A chuckle courses through the group; a slackening of tension, with the knowledge the worst is behind them. These people are grateful to be fed a glossy lie; yet, still, it is a mercy. The conversation will move on. Before too long at all, he and James will make their excuses.

“It must be a great hardship for you.” The voice comes suddenly, too loud in the wake of the soft tapestry of words James had woven. The crowd shifts around the speaker, a man with a red circular face like a fat tomato propped on his collar. Mr. Beekman, Francis recalls; some baronet sour with gout, of little consequence before now. His tone is not of the condescending pity of ill-thought comments on James’s physical state; rather, he speaks with a sense of thoughtful certainty that grates on Francis’s nerves like the edge of a dull knife.

“It is a small price to pay,” James says. Francis finds himself drifting from the wall, drifting over the mantle of the fireplace where he can lean on pretense of thawing the January chill, as close to standing at James’s side as he can manage. “Besides,” James continues, with what must be a gargantuan effort to lighten his tone, “it barely troubles me, but on the colder days. Now—”

“But you must think very often of how things might have gone differently,” the dreadful man continues, in his voice which unrolls like a thick, musty carpet. “If you had never set foot on that ill-fated vessel, you would be whole and hale today.”   

James quiets. His hand turns on the head of his cane as if adjusting a dial. The heat of the fire beats over Francis like a hammer to the anvil. Its light glitters in a half dozen eyes.

 “If I were given the choice a second time,” James continues, “I would still have stepped aboard _Erebus_ ’s deck without even a twinge of regret.”

“Good God, man,” one of the other gentlemen says, emboldened rather than chagrined by Mr. Beekman’s audacity. “What on earth could compel you to willingly inflict such a fate upon yourself?”

James does _not_ glance in Francis’s direction, but Francis also does not miss the slight tilt of his head—as if he is catching himself in the impulse. “It’s more than I am able to explain.”

The gentlemen nod as if in understanding. “I suppose there is something noble to be said for the draw of adventure,” Mr. Beekman says in a faintly begrudging tone. “But for a man your age, in the prime of his life, to be laid low by bodily frailty—tragic. Quite tragic indeed.”

The bitter irony that this doughy man, who has done nothing more strenuous or exciting than a staged fox hunt over the extent of his life, dares to cast aspersions on James’s capabilities—it’s enough to make the taste on Francis’s dry tongue as bitter as whiskey. He can hold it no longer.

“The extent of Captain Fitzjames’s injuries are hardly so debilitating as that,” he says, keeping his tone poisonously mild.

Mr. Beekman blinks up at Francis as if only just then noticing he was not one of the footmen. “Ah—of course. You are Captain Crozier, yes? You have remained with Captain Fitzjames through the bitter end and beyond. A duty of honor, no?” Mr. Beekman turns back to James with a smile more suitable for a small child asking for a sweet. “You’re quite lucky to have such a dedicated caretaker.”

The fury which rises from the pit of Francis’s stomach is so sudden and powerful it actually incapacitates him, a hand clenched around his throat until the blood pounds in his temples. By the time he’s opening his mouth to tell this awful little man that James is not some ailing pet who requires the attentions of a wet nurse to see him through his days, James is already speaking for himself.

“Quite lucky,” he says, his voice level and polished; and when he turns to smile at Francis, his eyes move right through him.

Francis’s gaze lingers a long while, even as the conversation moves blessedly on; he makes no move to hide the disbelief on his face, but James does not turn to face it. Instead he speaks, transitioning easily into the story of the second time he was imprisoned during his overland trek from China. His voice moves through the air like the shuttle over a loom, weaving a barrier between his audience and himself, sitting confined to his chair and forced to spin straw into gold; escaping into the past, for the present offers no recourse.

Francis waits by his chair for the remainder of the night, long after his own knees have grown tired and sore. When the time comes, he helps James to his feet with a steadying hand on his arm, and does not meet the eyes of the remaining guests who watch the way James settles his weight on the cane as soon as Francis’s hand is gone. 

 

* * *

 

“I’d like to see that man flogged,” Francis growls, the second the cab door shuts behind them and they’re safe within its privacy. There are no lamps lit within—the only light comes from the windows, the lanterns which border the lane leading to Lady Vance’s estate which throw wheeling swaths of light over both their faces as the carriage jostles past.

James smiles at Francis’s dramatics, the expression vapid and short-lived and turned towards the window glass. It lasts not even as long as the passing light which illuminates it. “He was a fool who meant no harm.”

“Meaning be damned.” Francis takes a moment to drag his hand through his hair with no more care to keep it neat, and when he speaks next he holds the hard edges of each syllable carefully on his tongue. “He insulted you, _repeatedly_ , James, and I myself am frankly at a loss as to why you permitted him to continue in such a manner—” 

“And might I remind you that my honor is not yours to defend?” James turns to look at him at last, an outline in the dark. As a lantern passes the window, the undercurrent of anger in his voice is lit plainly upon his face. “I may require your assistance in all other things, but I do not require you to _speak_ for me as well.”

“That is false, _wildly_ false. You’d do well enough without me, if you cared to—and why you allow these damned fools to think otherwise remains beyond me—“

“Because they are right, Francis.” James shifts in his seat. His fingers flutter on the head of his cane, a flash of silver in the light. “Most are too polite to say it, but it’s certainly what every person thinks when they see me limping about the room with this damned implement.”

“There are many men that carry a cane. I might myself, were I more in the fashion.”  

James scoffs. “My own is not an accessory.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

“I’m an invalid.”

James’s voice cuts across him like a switch. For a moment Francis can only blink, taken aback. “You are _not_ ,” he says, “and even if you were, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me.”

“Well, how lucky for us,” James says, low and rough with bitterness. “Considering that the doctors can give no reasonable answer as to whether this is likely to grow better or worse, perhaps that is what the future holds for us both—”

“I’ll not hear you speak in such a way.”

“I’ll speak however I damn well please,” James snaps. “My body may be liable to break at any instant, but words are one trauma I am still able to endure.”

“For Christ’s sakes James, you are not made of porcelain—"

“Am I not? Then why is it that you grip my arm on the stairs? That you linger near me every minute as if I might topple over?” James shakes his head as if to clear it. The lanterns seem spaced farther apart now, the darkness between stretching longer. “I wish you would at least offer me the politeness of honesty. I promise you, it cannot harm my pride now.”

Francis leans across the seat to grip the man’s arm. It is not enough to draw James’s gaze back to him. “I stand close to you,” he says, “because I enjoy your proximity. Not because I worry for you.”

“But you do worry,” James says.

For that, Francis has no reply. In the last sweep of light as they pass the final lantern, James’s face is stiff, as if under the weight of a dull and lasting pain. Perhaps he is. Francis knows he cannot ask, so he doesn’t.

And so they ride on in silence, rocked by the movement of the cart. James is a jumble of darkness against the black window, and Francis can feel him drawing away; farther and farther, as if dissolving into the night behind him.

“I worry only because I care for you,” Francis says, much belated; James hums his acknowledgement, and the ride home passes in silence. 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise this is not going to be a bummer the _whole_ time, but what can I say, I love that sweet angst. Aiming for three chapters, but I suspect this might balloon as I edit it. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [plaidmax.](http://plaidmax.tumblr.com)


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